


The Deep Breath

by Vertiga



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen, Legolas/Aragorn if you're wearing slash goggles I guess, Sort of all three and sort of none of them, Vignette, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 18:42:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vertiga/pseuds/Vertiga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the eve of the battle before the Black Gate, Aragorn's heart is heavy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Deep Breath

In all his years on this Middle Earth, Aragorn cannot remember a longer night. It is similar, in some superficial way, to a great many other nights – the bustle of the camp, thousands of men simply living, wound tense as bowstrings with the knowledge that the morning will bring horror beyond endurance. Aragorn has ridden to battle many times: he took horse in Rohan with Thengel son of Fengel, long before Saruman’s treachery brought woe upon those fields. He has ridden with the elves, with Elladan and Elrohir, proud sons of Elrond, seeking orcs in the sharp valleys west of the Misty Mountains, tracing them to their foul dens and cutting them down. And with Legolas Greenleaf, far-seeing prince of Mirkwood, he has hunted the goblins and foul spiders which blight the realm once called Greenwood the Great. With his ranger brethren he has long kept the Shire as a shrine to peace, fighting a great many battles on behalf of those who barely know the dangers he has faced. But never, in all these small skirmishes and great battles of high renown, has so much been at stake.

Aragon holds a goblet of wine twixt pensive fingers, dangling it as though on the very brink of falling – fair comparison, he thinks, to the mood of this night. The armies of Gondor and Rohan, already battle worn and weary, prepare to stand against all Sauron’s might at the gates of Mordor, and all the world hangs in the balance. And yet the battle may be in vain, all their hazard baseless, even if they pull some miracle from the aether and emerge victorious. The real battle hinges on two small hobbits, utterly alone beneath the gaze of the Enemy, and nothing Aragorn can do – risk his life and thousands more though he may – will change their quest. The mighty ranger, Isildur’s heir, is helpless.  
That is what galls him, what keeps him waking through the night, hearing the guards change outside his tent. His pavilion. This campaign is worlds away from nights spent alone in the far northern forest, wrapped in his filthy cloak to keep away the chill. He is a Lord of Gondor, a hero of Rohan, on the very brink of claiming the throne which is his birthright. He is clad in velvet, seven stars upon his breast, and no man disturbs his rest.   
But perhaps a friend, veteran of too many such nights, will dare to interrupt his princely vigil.

It is still some hours before dawn when the soft voice of a guard alerts him to the arrival of a guest.

‘My lord, what would you here? Lord Elessar is sleeping.’

‘I think that unlikely. I have never known him to sleep long before a battle,’ the voice is low, a bare whisper of wind through leaves. Aragorn knows it at once, and his spirits lift a little.

‘Legolas! Mellon nin, you are most welcome here,’ he calls out, not moving from his hunched place. He has not moved for hours, not even to sip the wine he holds.

The rich canvas is swept aside and Legolas enters, pale and calm. There is no trace of fear in him, this ageless elf who has braved so many dangers at Aragorn’s side.  
‘A still night,’ the elf says by way of greeting. ‘The world seems breathless.’

Aragorn shakes his head slightly. ‘The deep breath has been taken, we are even now plunging towards the water.’

'And yet you take no rest,' Legolas says, gently chiding. 'We will reach the water whether you watch for it or not.'

Aragorn smiles. 'I note that you are yet waking.'

'There are no stars,' the elf replies. 'Even in the deepest walks of Mirkwood, where the spiders shrouded the boughs, I could find the stars if I climbed high enough. I cannot climb above the foul fumes of the Enemy, and I can find no rest without the sky. I have not known such darkness since Moria.'

'It weighs upon me also,' Aragorn agrees. 'There will be no true dawn tomorrow.' His voice is heavy, betraying all his old friend need hear to understand the turmoil in his heart.

Legolas reaches out and plucks the forgotten goblet from Aragorn's hand, setting it aside. He settles beside the hope of men, pale hands guiding him with infinite gentleness to rest against his shoulder.

'There will be a dawn,' Legolas promises, running clever fingers through Aragorn's soft, dark hair. Aragorn sighs and hides his face in the elf's neck, turning his back, for one precious moment, on the duty which weighs him down. He cannot sleep, but with his oldest friend at his side, perhaps he can rest awhile. 

'I wish I had your faith,' he murmurs.

Legolas laughs softly. 'It is you in whom I have faith, Elessar. After this battle is won, there will be a dawn. And you will be the one to bring it.'


End file.
